Devil's in the Details
by MissyMaestro
Summary: While a certain consulting detective deduces to solve cases, a certain lab tech has gotten quite good at analyzing the smallest of details, as well.
1. Chapter 1

Molly sighed as she slumped back into the couch cushions, pulling the blanket tighter around her as she did. Another rerun was beginning on the telly and she was resigned to the fact that the remote was simply too far away and she hadn't the strength to get up and fetch it. A nasty bug was going around the office and she's picked it up.

Canned audience laughter filled the living room when a harsh knock came at the door. Before Molly could get up, the door burst open. Sherlock snapped the door shut and ruffled his hair as he surveyed the interior of the house briefly.

"Sherlock," Molly gasped.

"You weren't at work today. You're always at work." Sherlock studied her for a moment before pursing his lips and nodding. A waste basket of tissues. An uncomfortably warm house. Bags under those usually sparkling eyes. "Ah. Influenza. Undiagnosed, but obvious. I'm assuming that means you've not filled a prescription."

Molly shook her head. "No. I haven't."

"I wasn't asking," Sherlock growled. "I knew."

"Of course," Molly mumbled to herself. She tried to casually smooth her frizzy, unbrushed hair into some sort of attractive 'd expected to stay in, warm up a can of soup, and catch up on her programs. Instead, she was now not only miserable physically, but mentally.

"I'll put on a tea," Sherlock announced, turning and heading for the kitchen.

"I'm all right," Molly called as her heart began pounding. She winced as it thudded in her congested ears. "Gah."

" _Are_ you all right?" Sherlock poked his head out from behind the kitchen wall.

The familiar curve of his long neck made Molly smile. She nodded and sat back on the couch. "Lovely, thanks. Just the usual aches and pains with the flu." As Sherlock went back to filling the teapot, she wracked her brain, trying to understand his sudden appearance. "Sherlock," she called, "did you need something," she paused, "from me?"

The defininitive CLICK of the tea kettle on the stove announced his attention. "Need something?" In a matter of three long strides, Sherlock was standing before the sick woman with a condescending look on his face.

"I, well," Molly stammered, "you've never dropped by and as a matter of fact, how do you know where I live?" It only took a second before she rolled her eyes. "Never mind. But truly, I called in ill. Surely you could have asked my manager or,"

"Or checked on you myself and cut out any unnecessary communication with those sad little people." Sherlock clapped his hands together and stared at Molly expectantly.

"Erm, I, yes?"

"Since you haven't eagerly suggested I remove my jacket and stay a while, I'll see you tomorrow at work, Molly. I can see you're in no mood for company."

"No, no, no!" Molly exclaimed as Sherlock turned and reached for the door. "I'm just surprised is all. Please, won't you stay a while? You came all this way and the tea's not even ready."

Sherlock spun back around and beamed. "Excellent!"

"Here," Molly said as she cleared a spot on the opposite end of the couch.

Sherlock grabbed a throw pillow from her and smiled. "Relax, Molly Hooper. I may be a guest, but you are sick. Allow me. You have assisted me in much more vital things. You've been the final link in solving cases. I think I owe it to you to see that you're feeling well."

"Oh," Molly said dejectedly.

"That doesn't please you?" Sherlock asked, frowning.

"Oh, no, it does," Molly lied. Here she'd gone, thinking some subconscious desire had brought him to her house.

"What, John? No. Truth is, Molly," he said as he sat next to her, "I've gotten used to seeing you every day."

Molly struggled to refrain from letting her eyes wander to the hand Sherlock had let drop to her knee. "I suppose that's right, isn't it?"

The tea kettle whistled. "Oh, I'll fetch that, then," Sherlock said after a moment before awkwardly jumping up and striding to the kitchen.

Molly took a breath and touched her cheeks. They felt warmer than they had all day. She exhaled and nestled deeper into the sofa. Not only did she feel awful, but she surely looked awful, too. There wasn't a chance Sherlock wasn't going to notice THAT. Regardless, she was happy to see him.

"Are you feverish?" Sherlock piped as he set her tea on the coffee table in front of her. He quickly laid the back of his hand upon her forehead. "You're quite warm. Your cheeks are flushed. I fear I WON'T be seeing you at work tomorrow, after all." He frowned. "Pity."

Molly giggled nervously. "I'd rather be there than here all alone." She held her breath, hoping Sherlock would offer to come over again tomorrow.

"Well you aren't alone anymore. Drink your tea." Sherlock sat back on the couch and crossed his legs comfortably. He reached for  
the remote and began surfing through the television channels, commenting on each program as he passed it. "Dull. Idiotic.  
Boring. Seen it."

"Don't you have any cases going on you should be working on right now?" Molly stared at Sherlock's profile with deep interest. Could it really be sheer attraction and care for her well-being that brought him here?

"I do," Sherlock replied, nodding and taking another sip of tea. "I told you already. I didn't see you at work and grew concerned. None of these lousy boyfriends of yours would bother to come see to you, so here I am."

"I don't have a lousy boyfriend," Molly quickly shot. "Well, I don't technically have a boyfriend at all," she added.

"Ah, good, then," Sherlock said with a smile.

"What?" Molly stared in disbelief. Her heart fluttered. "Why's that good?"

"Drink your tea, Molly." Sherlock smirked and took a sip of his own brew.

"Wait, you didn't know that?" Molly raised an eyebrow as she watched the cocky grin slide almost immediately from Sherlock's lips. "You couldn't deduce that I don't have a boyfriend right now?" As his disappeared, a smirk formed on Molly's face.

"I thought," Sherlock mumbled as he quickly searched the room for more clues. His eyes settled briefly on a pair of high heels by the door. Nail polish on the coffee table. A half-crocheted hat on the floor by the armchair. A mascara spilling out of her relatively new handbag that was certainly more expensive than she could afford. "No. You certainly have a boyfriend. There's some man you fancy. You do your best to maintain even trivial features - nails, makeup, hair on point at all times in hopes that the shallow bastard will notice and fall in lust over you for it."

Molly cleared her throat and looked down at her bright red nails with the glitter accent nail. "No, just doing things for myself."

"Hmm. It's a pity, really. You don't need any of this. Hmmm." Sherlock continued to scan the apartment as Molly turned her attention back to the TV. As thrilled as she was at Sherlock's unexpected visit, she couldn't fend off her exhaustion any longer and fell asleep.

When he returned his attention to her, a smile passed over his lips. "Sleep well, Molly Hooper," Sherlock whispered before bending and pecking her on top of the head.

When Molly woke up later that evening, she was astonished to find the dishes had been done and Sherlock had left a note on the coffee table.

"Feel better, Miss Molly Hooper. -S."


	2. PMS

If she could have, Molly would have shot lasers out of her eyes and shorn John Watson clear in two. "You could say PLEASE," she snapped.

John stared at her in disbelief. "Okay, fine. I'm sorry. Will you PLEASE run this sample? It's a matter of time. A school bus full of children has been hijacked and we need to know what traces you can find. Sherlock's running God knows where and this was my task." He stared at Molly expectantly. "Well?"

"Well, all I wanted was you to ask instead of demanding!" Molly grabbed the cigarette butt from John's hand. "I'll run it. Fine. Okay. I have your number and I'll let you know what I find."

John nodded. "Okay, sure." He backed out of the lab before turning and heading back down the hallway.

"ARGH!" Molly stamped her feet on the ground. Not only was she having horrid menstrual cramps which were making her impressively irritable, but her best childhood friend Robyn had gotten engaged last night. Everyone was engaged and poor Molly Hooper couldn't even last more than three dates before finding out her suitor was a serial killer or a psychopath or who knows what. She was cursed. "I. HATE. BEING. A. GIRL." Molly slammed microscope parts onto the counter angrily. She glared at the cigarette butt. It wasn't like she had enough to do, already.

Thirty minutes later, she had jotted a list of information she'd pulled from the cigarette and was heading to find John. She probably owed him an apology, anyway. "Here's your list, I'd take special note of the first three bullets, if Sherlock hasn't found your suspect yet," Molly announced as she entered the lounge John usually frequented. "It's especially interesting that-" she trailed off.

"Thanks much, but I've already taken care of it by myself." Sherlock was lying along the back of the couch, smashing the cushions beneath him. His hands were pressed together and resting on his lips. John was tapping away on his laptop in the adjacent armchair.

"Of course you have," Molly snapped. She crumpled the list and threw it into a garbage can. "All of that work for nothing. I'll see you round, then. I've got to get back to my own work, for a change." She spun toward the door and stomped toward it.

"Molly, the table," Sherlock called after her.

"Hmm?" Molly looked back.

"The table. A French hot chocolate. Extra whipped cream and those chocolate sprinkles." Sherlock swung his legs around and sat up with his feet on the cushions. He beamed and nodded toward the table. "For you."

The paper rustled as John lowered it in interest.

"What, why?" Molly asked, dumbfounded.

"You were excessively grumpy yesterday, your breasts are swollen ever so slightly and I noticed a few blemishes along your jawline. You're clearly menstruating and this is your favorite drink from the shop around the corner. Sugar can do wonders for women when-"

"For the love of God," John mumbled. "Sherlock. Okay."

Molly chewed at her bottom lip for a second before crossing the room and snatching the drink from the table. "Well, um, thanks for noticing." She quickly took a drink. "This IS delicious. Thank you." She scurried from the room before her face turned any redder.

"Sherlock, really?" John folded the paper and tossed it onto the coffee table. "The poor girl is mortified. Her BREASTS? Pointing out blemishes?"

"That was good, I know. You're so adament about me showing my feelings for Molly, you should be proud, John!" Sherlock sighed in contentment. "It DOES feel good to make someone else's day. Perhaps there's something to this."

John chuckled. "Right."


	3. the Prada Programmer

John licked his lips and cleared his throat. Then, he adjusted his jacket and studied his shoes for a moment. Afterward, he glanced out the window, looked at his watch, and studied his fingernails before clearing his throat again.

Sherlock, on the other hand, stared at the woman sitting on the couch in 221B Baker Street. She was the definintion of a bombshell, he knew. Her lipstick was expensive and applied carefully. Not a hair was out of place, though it was often bleached and was starting to show signs of damage. Her face had been injected with Botox within the past month, though her makeup was expertly applied over it. Her breasts had clearly been done recently, as a woman of her age would never achieve that perkiness naturally. The bag she carried was designer, as were her shoes and jacket. Her fake nails clicked impatiently on the cell phone -the latest model, of course, and in a pink rhinestone case -resting on the arm of the couch.

"Well?" the woman snapped.

"Well what?" Sherlock replied.

"Aren't you going to ask me what I'm here for?"

John sat up straighter. "Of course, Ma'am- Miss?" he asked hopefully.

"Miss," the woman replied. "Miss Buckley."

"What do you want?" Sherlock snapped. He was getting bored. Everyhing about this woman screamed _fake!_ but he gave her the benefit of the doubt. Fake people sometimes brought him interesting cases.

"I _want_ you to solve my case," the woman snapped back. "I think my brother is gay, but I haven't found any conclusive evidence."

Sherlock snorted. "That's it? Why don't you ask him? Case closed. Get out."

"Rude," the woman growled. "THat's not the interesting part. I'm not an animal - I don't care if he's gay. I'm here because I think he's murdered his lover."

John and Sherlock exchanged glances.

"Well, that's certainly a twist. Murdered his lover?" John replied in obvious disbelief, jotting down notes. "Why would you say that?"

"I can't find him anywhere. Charlie, his name is. He isn't answering his cell or e-mails. He _always_ picks up my calls." The woman pouted and tried a seductive look on John. "Won't you help me? Oh, and there's a body in his flat."

"I'm interested. We'll take the case," Sherlock said. "Take us to the body."

John rolled his eyes. "Sherlock, I'm certain she's called the police. Right, Miss Buckley-?"

Miss Buckley shrugged. "I thought I'd give the world famous Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson a crack at it first."

"Oh, no," John moaned as Sherlock jumped to his feet and was out the door.  
***

"No bullet wounds, bruising, or blunt force trauma, no ligature marks, no internal bleeding. He wasn't poisoned and he wasn't murdered violently. It will take an autopsy to figure out what happened to this poor man," Molly listed off for Sherlock later that afternoon. "Are you certain this man was murdered? I just don't see it."

After a quick once-over of the gay brother's lover, John had called LeStrange and officially handed the body over to police care. Greg hadn't even bothered to ask why they were calling instead of the woman. Some questions just weren't worth wasting your breath on, he had once told the detectives.

Frowning, Sherlock shook his head. "Hmm, are you certain there are no indicators? Look again."

"I've looked again _already_. I'm telling you, this man had an underlying health problem." Molly smiled triumphantly. "I've gone over everything. What did you find at the crime scene?"

Scowling, Sherlock threw his hands in the air. "Nothing. Nothing that would indicate how he died. Maybe this isn't the lover after all. I need to get someone to ID the body."

"Greg hasn't authorized-" Molly called after him to no avail. She shrugged and let a small smile pull at the corner of her lips.

"Is this you brother's lover?" Sherlock asked as he threw open the door.

Molly looked up and immediately froze upon seeing the woman at the detective's side. She could have been a celebrity. Her makeup and hair were perfect, her breasts were large and displayed like a work of art, her waist was small, and because of those factors, Molly decided immediately that she loathed her.

"Oh, that's him, I'm certain," Miss Buckley nodded without looking at the body. "Have you found out how he was killed, yet? I'm certain it's my brother's doing. Otherwisehe wouldn't be acting so peculiar and avoiding me. He's likely left the country. He worked for the military, so it's unlikely we'll  
see him again."

John raised an eyebrow. "You can't just disappear, not truly. What unit did he serve?"

The woman's mouth opened and closed wordlessly a few times. "I, I don't know. He was very secretive. Anyway, this poor man had no family, so that's that, I suppose."

"You said you thought your brother was gay, but didn't have evidence. Yet you know that his lover had no family and didn't even have to look at his face to ID the body?" Sherlock blurted suddenly. "Who is this man, _really_?"

The woman blinked slowly. "I mean, they were friends. I assumed-"

"And now your brother has mysteriously and conveniently, might I add, disappeared. You can't contact him, he's out of the country, and you've effectively written him out of the story. Do you even have a brother, Miss Buckley? And what is your real name, by the way?"

The woman shook her head. Her face betrayed her shock. "That's my name."

"Full name? Middle name?" Sherlock pushed, stepping closer toward the woman until he was six inches from her, looming over her threateningly. "Tell them to me, quickly!"

"Michelle - Sarah - Buckley."

"Initials? Quickly!"

"Ah, M," the woman stuttered, flustered. "Initials? What's this have to do with anything?"

"Fake name, fake story, yet a very real and very dead body. Tell me, _you_ , who is this man? Or rather, who _was_ this man?" Sherlock was panting with excitement.

" _She's married!_ " Molly blurted suddenly, sneering. "She has a tan line on her ring finger. She's obviously married. But no ring! So it's her  
husband!"

"OH, OH!" Sherlock blurted, spinning and striding across the morgue to the woman. "Molly Hooper. Yes." He reached out, took her face in  
his hands, and kissed the top of her head. "Very good. So simple - I missed it. Yet it's something every woman surely looks for on another woman - the wedding ring. Is this woman my competition or is she safely married? There's only one way to know."

"Competition." Molly rolled her eyes. "That tan line and the callous mean she's been married for some time. But she put on that low top and displayed her," she cleared her throat. "You know, so you wouldn't notice any little details about her. Like the fact that she's married and hadn't mentioned her husband to you, I'm assuming?"

John once again studied the floor and his shoes very intently.

Sherlock beamed like a proud parent. "Molly Hooper. You've soled your first crime. Congratulations." He turned back to the woman, who was frantically searching the room for a door.

"No, no," John chided. "Jail for you, ma'am. I'm very sorry."

"You idiots," she hissed. "You can't pin anything on me. I thought you were supposed to be the cute normal one? You're all a bunch of freaks."

"Didn't you tell me on the way over here you worked in computer programming?" John suddenly asked. "Bragging about knowing the ins and outs of security and hacking into systems and databases?"

The woman narrowed her eyes.

"I'll assume that's a yes, and that you weren't lying." John looked to Molly. "I have a theory. Make sure to look at the heart during the autopsy."

The woman breathed more heavily.

"Aha," Sherlock said, smiling. "My intelligent, wonderful friends. This woman wanted her husband dead. I presume he ran out of money, is that right? Spent it on hookers and night clubs to seek out some sort of affection, since you used him as a bank. Social climber. Don't think your designer purse and coat and breasts didn't give that away. Yet you're just a lowly computer programmer- that was the truth- those nails are shorter than the average fake nails and the way that you're squinting tells me your eyes are fried from staring at a monitor. Anyway, a computer programmer, and a female, at that, wouldn't have the physical strength to overpower a man of this stature, so she turned to her skills."

"Check the heart," Molly murmured to herself. "A pacemaker?" Disgust settled on her face. "Oh, that's terrible."

"Bingo," Sherlock cheered. "She hacked into his pacemaker and gave him a heart attack. It wouldn't show up in an autopsy as murder. Your flaw was trying to pin it on your brother who doesn't exist. Why not just pretend he died of a malfunction with the device?" Sherlock asked, leaning down and once again putting himself in the woman's face. When she didn't answer, he chuckled. "Of course. You wanted the media attention. It follows us, and you hoped it'd rub off on you. Social climbing. Clever."

"Not clever enough," Molly smirked.

"That one was too easy," Molly commented over dinner at Baker Street that evening. Sherlock had insisted she come celebrate her first case. They'd  
finished their take-out Chinese and were chatting over the day's events. John had excused himself to do the dishes, but Molly quickly realized they'd eaten straight out of the boxes with chopsticks. _Clever devil,_ she noted to herself.

"She made a fatal flaw in bringing in the gay brother." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "How dull these people are. How pathetic."

"She was pretty, though," Molly sighed.

Sherlock snorted and gave her an incredulous look. "Hardly."

"Oh, come." It was her turn to roll her eyes. "If she hadn't gone to jail, I'm sure someone would have given her a modeling job or put her on TV. It's refreshing to see a sexy woman get put away and treated like everyone else."

"Sexy? Pan. I've told you before," Sherlock said, raising an eyebrow at the pathologist, " _thinking_ is the new sexy. An intelligent woman can do wonders for  
a man's imagination." He held eye contact with Molly for a moment before he winked and headed for the kitchen.

The intelligent Molly Hooper remained on the couch, dissecting the comment and trying to discern whether Sherlock knew he had complimented and flirted with her.


	4. After the Fall

"Molly, you're the most stubborn woman I've come to know."

"You're throwing off my system. I have a system and a man in my house is not a part of it," was her snippy reply.

Sherlock had been staying with Molly following his fall. She kept his secret and he tried to keep out of her hair. They got along swimmingly most of the time, but both occasionally found the other intolerable.

Now Molly was kneeling on the bathroom floor, her elbows resting on the toilet seat as she held her hair back. The flu had paid its yearly visit to her. No matter how many vaccinations she got, the dead never failed to give her one last gift in whatever seasonal illness had taken them.

"Let me do something for you." Sherlock leaned against the door frame and took note of the Molly's condition. Palm, sweaty skin. Obvious nausea. Likely the day one onset of what usually struck her as a three day illness. He'd need to make up an ice bag for her, as the first night was usually the worst for the poor girl.

"Go away!" Molly snarled, glancing back over her shoulder.

"You're ill, Molly."

"No kidding? I'm so glad I have a consulting detective here to tell me that. Aren't you afraid you'll get sick? Go solve a crime or something."

"I can't leave."

"Wear a hat."

"I especially can't wear a hat, Molly."

"Quit using my name like that."

"Why? It's your name." When Molly didn't respond, Sherlock smirked in triumph. However, he soon realized Molly's silence was due to another bout of retching. "Very well. I'll be in the living room _when_ you need me." He shut the door and sighed in frustration. Molly was so fiercely independent that she refused to let him help with even the smallest of tasks. He made a tremendous effort to tidy up after himself and not to inconvenience her. She had finally seemed to relax around him, and he was shocked at how much he enjoyed her company. He'd even taken to trying to cook dinner and have it on the table when she got home from work. This week's dish to learn, he decided, was stir fry. Molly had come home serveral times noting that she and whoever went to Chinese for lunch. Sherlock wondered if she picked up on how observant he was in matters of her life.

Molly groaned from within the bathroom and Sherlock ruffled his hair. _Molly is sick. What are Molly's interests? Reading. Not while sick and prone to headaches. Crocheting. Too much effort. Movies. Too much of a time commitment when she may just want to sleep. Baking. No. Aha!_ Sherlock strolled into the kitchen and snatched a small container before disappearing into the master suite he and Molly had taken to sharing.

"Holmes," Molly grumbled as she dragged herself back into the living room. "I'm sorry for snapping. You know I don't like people making a fuss over me. Holmes?"

"Here, here." Sherlock appeared behind Molly and made her jump.

"Stop _doing_ that!" Molly groaned.

"Come along. I won't make a fuss." He steered her toward the master suite.

"You're locking me in the bedroom?" Molly frowned. "I suppose I could just go to bed. I could use the rest." As Sherlock steered her past the bed and toward the bathroom, she raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

He flipped on the master bathroom light and beamed. The claw-footed tub was filled with steaming water and bubbles.

Molly inhaled deeply. "Is that mint?"

"Mint sprigs in the water. Yes. There's a towel and fresh pajamas. Enjoy, Miss Molly." With that, he left her to enjoy her bath.

"Sherlock, you great brute," Molly whispered to herself, grinning to herself as she leaned against the door frame and glanced eagerly at the water.

Listening at the other side of the door, Sherlock decided the reaction was thanks enough and strode back down the hall.


	5. Beauty and a Beat

**Author's Note: Hello, Muffins! I apologize for the delay. My fandom has wandered slightly while I was for Sherlock S:4. (Sigh!) Sherlolly still has a special place in my heart, though.**

" _Party rock. I wanna feel your body rock."_

Sherlock hesitated before slipping his key into the deadbolt lock. He cocked his head slightly as he paused to listen. Molly had sent him to the grocery store with a two page list of ingredients she needed for holiday dinner. Some of the ingredients had been tricky to find, but he didn't mind a menial task such as that once in a while. The notion of a proper turkey dinner excited him. It had been years since he'd had one, and besides, Molly's cooking was almost as spectacular as her skills in the lab. Sherlock's sharp cheekbones had become somewhat less pronounced with proper nourishment. John would have been proud to see him in such great physical health. Sherlock's face fell momentarily as he thought of John. Since the fall, Sherlock had been staying at Molly Hooper's house, making sure to only venture out occasionally as to not raise suspicion that he was indeed still alive. He missed John, but had been shocked to find that Molly's company was thoroughly enjoyable.

" _We're gonna party like it's 2013 tonight. I wanna show you all the finer things in life._ "

Soft thudding sounds resonated from inside. Sherlock let out a soft chuckle. Was Molly truly _dancing_ to this atrocious music? He quietly entered the house and let the door shut with a click.

Before him was renounced lab technician and brilliant mind Molly Hooper, a video game remote in her hand and her back to the door.

" _All I need is a beauty and a beat."_

She bounced back and forth and Sherlock couldn't help but notice Molly was wearing a pair of short shorts he'd never seen before. A genuine smile crept to his lips as he watched her. The mess of hair tumbling out of the hair elastic at the top of Molly's head bobbed along to the beat for the rest of the song.

"Whoof," Molly panted as soon as five golden stars appeared next to her avatar. "Yeahh," she cried, spinning around in victory. When she had turned 180 degrees and spotted Sherlock, she screeched in surprise. She dropped her arms immediately and crossed her legs. In no time, her face burned red. "How long have you been home?" She'd expected Sherlock to take longer at the store. It had been ages since she'd been home alone and she'd quite missed her dancing game.

"Only a minute, I," Sherlock stammered. "You've never played this game before." He smirked. "It's quite fun."

"I'm just dancing, erm, working out. I don't do it while anyone is around." Molly blushed and bit her lip. "Time to shower off now, erm, bye."

"I was actually waiting for you to finish your dance to see if you'd help me carry in the groceries-" Sherlock explained, but Molly was already down the hall. The bathroom door slamming alerted him to the fact that he would indeed be carrying the groceries in on his own.

He placed the memory in a safe place in his memory palace and set the first batch of brown paper bags on the counter. The sounds of a whistled Justin Bieber song floated through the lane as Sherlock brought in the rest of the bags.


	6. To Be, or Not To Be?

She was tall and blonde with undeniably exquisite breasts.

Molly's spoonful of cereal was frozen in midair; breakfast the last thing on her mind.

"Excuse me, sorry!" The blonde tip-toed through the living room with a pair of bright red high heels aloft in her hand. "I didn't know anyone else lived in the house. Sorry if we were a bit loud stumbling in, you know!" She shrugged and bit her lip shyly. "Typical Saturday night in London, eh?"

Nodding, Molly mumbled, "Uh huh."

"Well, he's still asleep, God, I don't even know his name!" The blonde giggled and slipped her shoes onto her feet. "I'm so embarrassed." Her red dress was wrinkled from the night's activities, but she wore it with pride. "So anyway, toodles." With that, the she clicked the door shut and left Molly to her soggy cereal.

* * *

"Who. Was. That?"

"Who was WHO?" Sherlock mumbled into his pillow.

Molly was standing in the doorway, looming like a seven foot tall being. "Who was that awful woman in my house? You're gone all night. I get up and go for a run. I come home. In that time, you've brought a woman home?" Molly's voice rose steadily until it was a shriek.

"Softly, _softly_!" Sherlock squinted up at her and groaned. "I've had an evening."

"I'll say. You were out until 6AM, Sherlock. Don't you think I was worried sick? Who was that woman? How do you know she's not going to go tell everyone that you're alive?" Molly crossed her arms across her breasts and raised an eyebrow. When Sherlock groaned and rolled back over, she jumped onto the mattress they usually shared and began swatting at any part of him she could reach. "WHO. WAS. THAT. WOMAN. IN. MY. HOUSE?"

"Stop it. Stop it. Stop it," Sherlock groaned into the pillow.

"Who was that woman? What was she doing here? After all I've done for you! You ungrateful-"

"If you must know, it was Mycroft's latest love interest. She and Mycroft had a falling out and she needed a place to stay in the middle of the night. Too bloody drunk to remember her own address. I had been chasing down one of Moriarty's men when I got the phone call from Brother Dear. He threw her out on some annoying accusations that she was using him for his lovely government paycheck. Now stop hitting me and bring me a tea."

Molly sat back, stared at the head of dark curls before her, and huffed.

"She slept on the floor, I did not have sex with her, and yes, I'm quite exhausted and as a matter of fact had a bit of a run-in with a Russian on the way back to the house. Any more lingering questions?" Sherlock growled, rolling over to reveal a black eye and swollen lip.

"You act like I'm the bad person here! How was I to know? A heads-up would have been nice. Besides, I'm only looking out for you and making sure you don't bring some stranger home _to my house_ and spill the secret you've been keeping from your best friend for thee years. You could say thanks once in a while, you know! And how was I to think you didn't bring her home? She's gorgeous and even you had to have noticed that."

"For the love of all that you hold holy, I may as well call you my wife for the intense courtesies I am apparently required to give you." Sherlock studied Molly for a moment before pulling the pillow over his head. "Tea, Molly."

Molly slammed the door and stormed into the kitchen. The tea kettle clanged noisily as it landed on the stove top. " _Why am I making his tea!_?" Molly hissed aloud. In spite of herself, she had to chuckle. _What a morning._

"Molly," Sherlock mumbled a few minutes later from the kitchen doorway.

Turning, Molly found him wrapped in the comforter, the dried blood cleaned from his lip but hair still tousled. "I'm making your tea," she snapped.

"I see that. Thank you." Sherlock yawned, then cocked his head as he watched her.

"What, Sherlock?" Molly said, leaning against the counter and narrowing her eyes at him. "I won't apologize for being angry. I'll fix you up an ice pack if that's what you're waiting for. Your eye _does_ look bad. Does it hurt?"

"It does. I'll take the icepack, please, after tea." Sherlock smiled and watched Molly continue to bop around the kitchen. "I think I was right. No," he laughed, rolling his eyes. "Of course I was right."

"Right about what?" Molly wrinkled her nose.

"In exchange for the courtesies we award each other, we may as well be an item."

The mug in Molly's hands fell to the ground and shattered. "What?"

"We live together, you help me solve crimes, you're one of the few women who are intelligent and interesting enough to be worth my time. There's not a chance another woman would be interested in me for anything other than my celebrity status, so you should be my girlfriend." Sherlock stepped over the ceramic pieces of mug on the tile and grabbed another mug. "Tea?"

Molly shook her head. "No tea, but, are you," she trailed off.

Sherlock poured the water into the mug and tossed in the tea bag before stooping and collecting broken pieces from around Molly's feet. "Stay there. There are a few pieces. I'll fetch the mop."

"Did you just say-?" Molly blurted.

"Shh, Molly. Softly. I have a splitting headache. And yes, if that's how you prefer this discussion went. Molly Hooper, will you be my girlfriend?" Sherlock asked as he swept the mug remnants from the floor. "Great, that's taken care of, then."

"I, I don't know."

"What?" Sherlock gasped. "I'm a wonderful catch. I'm the world's only consulting detective."

"You're also obnoxious and arrogant."

"I just swept the kitchen floor in this sorry condition so that my girlfriend wouldn't step on the porcelain and get it in her feet." Sherlock tilted his head and studied her. Furrowed brow. Pursed lips. Eyes glassed over. She was _genuinely_ thinking his proposition over.

Molly thought for a moment longer, then nodded. "You did do that."

"So is this a no? Very well. I'm going back to bed."

"No!" Molly cried. "It's not a no. It's a yes. Yes, Sherlock, I will be your girlfriend." A wide smile broke onto her face and she jumped up and down, her hands clenched into balls in front of her breast.

"Great. I'm still going back to bed."

Molly stared in disbelief as Sherlock stumbled back to the bedroom with his tea in hand.


End file.
